Don't Worry, Everyone Crashes on Taris!
by Freesourceful
Summary: Continues the "Just Another Crazy Beginning" one-shot. Things take a turn for the strange. The dynamic duo have broken up and an inexplicable species of followers called "fans" tags Raven; making a covert mission above ground dangerously more so...
1. Beauty, the Loo, & Captain Tightypants

**BEAUTY, THE LOO, AND CAPTAIN TIGHTY-PANTS**

_A sort-of continuation of the wacky adventures of the potty-mouthed-Revan-without-a spine (see "Just Another Crazy Beginning") – this time in Taris! (Who would have thought?) Now being distributed world-wide with 80-percent less-funny and 40-percent more words! (Note: statistics are made-up on the spot and 99.99-percent inaccurate.)_

**TARIS: UPPER CITY SOUTH: 1700 (DAY 3)**

I'm telling you: she is _hot_. Classic Alderanean figure, cerama-bright skin, and a mouth that'd make some men I know water for more. Her mahogany hair is tied back in low-sweeping pigtails and a gentle streak of long bangs arch like a rainbow across the corners of her forehead_. Wait, wait, wait …_ pigtails? _What's up with that?_ _And the bangs? Where are the fashion police? It kinda looks she's trying to cover up a bald spot, hehe…_

But she's a Jedi, I'm pretty sure, and maybe that excuses the backwards fashion. I'm also pretty certain that anyone calling her on it would definitely find out, up close and personal-like, that the shiny yellow lightsaber she's wielding ain't for show. I watch her drop a gray-skinned dope wearing a way-too-tight-matching-gray-leotard-suit (scary), and for a moment she looks up. I think my heart stops. Big, luminous, baby-blue eyes. Deffo, man, she is _hot_.

I'm just about to call out and get her attention when an overwhelming need to empty the cargo swamps my bowels and I start backpedaling through time and space; or, at least, it seems like time and space, because the whole universe at that moment goes _black-swirly-crazy_ with Technicolor highlights.

I wake up screaming for the loo and hit my head on something rough. I fall back into the squishy surface of what I hope is a bed. I woke up in the stuffing of a tauntaun once and I really don't want to repeat that experience again. (Mental note: kill Joshm the next time I see him. See how funny he finds _that_ joke.)

"," a man's voice says. I blink as my eyes adjust to the big dark blur that resolves into a big orange blur and then into the half-covered face of a man.

"Huh?"

He takes his hand off his nose. "I said, 'Glad to see you up instead of thrashing around in your sleep.' You have a damned hard head, you know that? I feel like I was hit by a durastee—"

"_No time to chat, gotta go to the loo_!" I shout and shove him roughly aside, dashing through closest door.

"That's the closet," His voice trails, "the 'fresher's the one across."

"$)!&#$)!$&)#&#$(&$#!&#()!" I scream, expletives following me from one side of the room to the other.

I have just enough time to think: _What kind of loser decorates a loo in pink?_ before Nature's urges take over and I completely lose myself in the blissful oblivion of release. _OhthanktheForceIdidn'tshikmypants…_

By this time I've almost completely forgotten about the dream. But like Uncle Small Jho always said, some of your best thinkin's done on the john. I let my mind wander, trying to piece together the details of what happened last night… I think it was last night, but all I can think about is the dream, and this unshakable feeling that it was important, momentous; beyond a healthy-interest-in-Ms.-Pneumatic-Power-Girl kind of way. It's still so vivid-real in my head, like a glitterstem hallucination but without the high, and if I guess correct, she looked to be around nineteen to twenty-two, depending on the makeup.

_Mmm — was that Corellian Spiced Red on her lips? _Eight years running rackets on the Outer Rim and an unfinished degree in Intergalactic Mercantilism bet that her outfit's made out of a coral lame. The particular orange-red colors — and scalloped edge patterns if you look at it tilted 45 degrees in moderate light — are a dead giveaway that any decent rim-traveler could tell you was produced exclusively on Sullust. The material was too flimsy to make into armor, but provided slightly more protection than your regular woven organic fiber, and so's tended to be popular amongst the Jedi. Especially the vain ones. But the utility belt on her hip was some kinda Zucci knockoff, and you could tell the cheap imitation from the original by the uneven discoloration and banding across the surface; although I'd have to get a closer look at the clasps to be sure. But _freezie_, man, I do dig the boots. Coruscant-tanned, pure empyrean draco skin, probably lined with a Talravin marmot fur inlay, if I'm not mistaken. Well, m'lady at least_ walks_ in style.

I'm squinching my face together and trying to remember the details of the ship that I was dream-riding on, but there's not much. By the layout of the observation deck, I'd call it a C-Class Republic heavy freighter, but it didn't look like any 'Public vessel I'd ever seen. Still, it was vaguely familiar, like one of those crazy two o'clock in the morning memories that leaves you crying to the dresser for another ride of ryll to keep down the bone-tearing-through-faces and charred-flesh-sticking-though-burned-clothes visions at bay. _Hrm_. I gotta stop watching those holovid horrors while I'm tripping on a 'stim high. Aunt Maija always said I had an overactive imagination.

But I still can't shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere…

"Hey," a voice breaks through from the other side of the door, "are you alright?"

"Have you ever come down off a spice addiction two days in and found yourself completely naked and surrounded by mating jawas?"

"Huh?" I think that's a horrified pause. "I… I can't say that I have."

"Then you have no idea how gross and wooly it feels to be in my head right now." Dry, flaky blood comes off in my hands as I rub my temples and prompt me to look in the mirror. The entire left side of my face looks like it's been worked over a few by a rancor and then stomped on by a dewback for good measure. There's a large strip of bandage wrapped around my head.

"Uh, hey, whoever you are. What happened to my head?"

"You were banged up pretty bad when our escape pod crashed."

_Escape pod? _I have a sudden flash of a very bad blond haircut chasing men in shiny helmets. _Figures._ "How come you're okay?"

"I was wearing the shuttle straps."

The one, single, solitary pod strap… _Oh, you dirty bastard. Why by the death-dealing suns of Tantooine had I gone anywhere with this Re-pubo 'tard again?_

"I'm Carth, by the way, one of the Republic soldiers from the Endar Spire. I was with you on the escape pod, do you remember?"

"Are you the one with a death wish and a penchant for killing Sith-heads with your bare hands?"

"What?"

"Then, no." I'm still examining the leftover wreck that's my face in the mirror. The swollen cheek feels hot and too-smooth where the skin's swollen taunt. Right now I look like all the charm of a fraggin' Brubb.

"I… I guess I got ahead of myself. I imagine you're probably pretty confused about things. Try not to worry. We're safe, at least for the moment. You were knocked out by the crash and you've been out for the last two days. You were thrashing in your sleep. Must have been having one hell of a nightmare. I was wondering if you were ever going to wake—"

I roll my eyes, not really listening to his screed. "—Look, buddy, I don't know how they do things back on your home planet, but I'm still kinda busy in the loo here right now, okay? I'd appreciate some privacy. Really." _Sheesh._

The talking stops and I think I hear the sound of boots walking abruptly away. Good. Silence. It's a golden thing that so few people appreciate.

I finish my business and rise to wash my hands, taking the opportunity to unwrap the bandages on my head and take a long hard look at the damage. Looks like the wound healed up pretty good – I always did have a strong constitution – but some of the crusted blood is still clinging to my hair. I smell like a wet bantha, but the Tangerine Wonder outside did a good job patching me up and I decide that the head wound is probably well enough to clean. I strip off the filthy remnants of my uniform, which sticks in places I don't even want to know, and pop into the sonic shower for a quick spell.

The pleasant hum of the dispensers vibrating along my skin feels good after Bochabaonly knows how many days I spent lying in that podgey bed. Never could get used to soft surfaces. After fifteen minutes of thorough cleaning, I almost start to feel like a halfway decent sentient again. It doesn't hit me till I step out of the shower that I have nothing left to wear. I look down at the puddle of filth on the floor. _Eww. Oh well._

I saunter out of the 'fresher room Nar Shaddaa-style and grin at the surprised look on the lucky-strap-wearing-bastard's face. While he's busy gaping at the free show, I take the opportunity to give him the appraising one-over: scruffy chin, chestnut hair, honest face and orange flight-jacket. This guy's practically a walking mark wearing tight, tight black leather pants. _Really tight_. My eyebrows arch. Well_, that _certainly explains a lot

His mouth is still hanging open as I move around the room and take stock of what's available. 'Publics and their prissy rules ― it just never gets old. I can't think of how many times this nudie trick has gotten me out of trouble with the law. Well… none at all, actually, but I still think it's a pretty good joke anyway.

The apartment's a single-roomer with a 'fresher room on the right and a closet and another door leading into a hallway on the left, but it's pretty sparsely furnished, and I can tell that the Rusty Ranger's no domestic by the way empty take-out food cartons are piled up on the floor. The paneling on the wall's stripping away in curly ringlets, but overall, it isn't the worst dive I've ever been in.

"I think I remember you now," I say, coming to a stop before Shocked and Orange and tapping a forefinger to my lips, "You were the guy on the comlink, right? Yeah. The open-jaw flytrap installment is new, but I remember seeing you on the 'Spire. You're some sort of big bad, all-important, VIP war hero, aren't you?" I offer my hand, "Velis, Raven Velis, Sir. Nice to meet you."

Something finally clicks in the Scruffmeister's head and he nearly goes into a fit. "Have you no shame!" he yells as he jerks away, face flushing like a vestal Twi-lek dancer on her first night out. "Put something on!" he mutters angrily. My hand stays dangling limply mid-air.

_Shame?_ "Well, I mean, I'm human, after all… you know, it's not like I'm gonna start walking through Coruscant _Hutta_-style — though I do like to think of myself as an open-minded individual, but there's also absolutely _nothing_ to wear in this apartment, you dig?" _And you really are so easy to tease._ "And you've got another think coming if you think there's any_ fraggin' way_ I'm walking out that door with a_ pink towel_ around my _poloney_. I mean, do have _some_ standards, you know. Not much, but some."

The expression on Scruffy and Indignant's face is priceless: like a cross between an angry Wookiee and a Kinrath pup getting a stick plugged up from behind. I can't resist a low chuckle at the thought, "Oh, Hoth, you Republics. I'll put something on if it bugs you that much."

Orange is pointedly ignoring me but waves a hand in the direction of the closet as I go rummaging around, looking for clothes. "Who decides to decorate a 'fresher in _pink_, anyway?" I ask, turning an inquiring glance.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me? You're the one who brought us here."

"I did?" Now that was a surprise. I straighten up. "Where did you say we were again?"

"We're in an abandoned apartment on the planet of Taris. At least, I think it's abandoned. You seem to have the access codes to the place."

I scratch my head. "I do?"

"Yeah, you wouldn't stop shouting about this address on 91000 Rue Soljenitsyne when we hit orbit. I thought it was just stress until we crashed in the vicinity and actually _were_ in West Taris. I wasn't seriously hurt, so I was able to drag you away from our crash site in all the confusion, and you led me to this apartment. By the time the Sith arrived on the scene, we were long gone."

"Sounds suspiciously convenient to me."

"That's supposed to be _my_ line. You've been slipping in and out of consciousness for a few days now so I haven't had a chance to ask. How could you possibly have known we were going to crash in Upper City South?"

"Uhm…" I lick my lips. This is going to be a hairy one… I figure I might have some guesses… but damned if I'm gonna share.

"Scoundrel's Luck?" I venture, pitching my voice high, "I might've read it on a pamphlet somewhere…" but I can see from Captain Scruffy's profile that he isn't convinced.

"Well, I guess I owe you my life, huh?" I say, quickly changing the subject, "Thanks."

"You don't have to thank me. I've never abandoned anyone on a mission and I'm not about to start now. Besides, I'm gonna need your help."

_Help? Me? _I grunt a response and go back to tossing bundles of linen and blankets — _what are we, sheltering a whole Republic flight squadron in here?_ — from the closet before finally finding some wearables at the bottom of the mess. There are a couple of loose shirts and a pair of spacer's pants that fit my size, but it all looks pretty sketchy, and the cuts are at least five years out of date. I shrug into the gray mesh shirt anyway, which is a little loose on my frame, and tuck it into the pair of spacer's pants that fit surprisingly well around the waist. I grab a dark brown utility vest off the rack and pop back into the 'fresher to check the look in the mirror. A little on the rim-runner side, but not bad. No undergarments, however, so it feels a bit breezy. I stuff the thick but slinky material of the shirt down further, hoping to ease the draft.

"I once worked a spice racket in Taris," I lie, coming back into the main room where I spot a stealth generator on the table and start buckling it on. "I might've picked up something about this place from an associate. I don't remember. Memory's a little spotty sometimes, and I don't recollect much if the 'stems not riding on the tail, you know? You can look now, by the way. I'm wearing threads."

He grunts and casts a glance my way to check. I lift my hands and give him the classic "Who me?" look. Square doesn't even bat an eye. "Well, I'm going to need you clean and sober if we want to find Bastila and get out of this alive."

"We?" I shake my head at Mr. Conveniently Confused. "I don't think so, buddy. I work _alone_. And I'm done playing footsie with you Republics. Your damn mission nearly got me _killed_, so you can damn well keep the pardon _and_ the credits and I'll take my chances out on the 'Rim. No point working to save my own hide from the judgers if I ain't gonna be using it when we're through."

"I don't think you understand the situation, here. Taris is under _Sith_ control. Their fleet is orbiting the planet, they've declared martial law, and they've imposed a planet-wide quarantine!"

"So?"

"So, there's no way the Republic or _anyone_ will be able to get anyone through! If we're going to find Bastila and get off this planet, we can't rely on anybody but ourselves."

"I'll manage." He gives me the hairy-eyeball. I take his look and squint right back.

"Alright," I sigh, "Look at it from my perspective a moment, okay? Everything is going to work out for you, I just know it, because you're probably a great fighter, and a smart guy, and resourceful mechanic and whatnot, but whatever it is, things always work out for you hero-types._ But me_? I mean, just look at me! I'm scrawny. I'm a nobody. I'm the person who gets killed on the sidequest while you and your girlfriend make a last-minute getaway right before the whole damn, _fraggin' entire planet explodes_. I mean, I'm really grateful for the rescue effort you put into saving me and all, but I'm just not interested in becoming Sith cannon fodder, sage?"

To his credit, Agent Orange actually pauses a moment to consider before speaking again. When he does, it's real careful, like speaking to a spooked bantha, which I guess is what I look like. "I saw on your service records that you understand a remarkable number of alien languages," he drawls softly, "That's pretty impressive in a raw recruit. It should come in really handy since we're stranded on a foreign world." He pauses. "So how about this: you keep your end of whatever contract you already have with the Fleet, and I'll only use you as a translator so you won't have to put your skin on the line for anything."

"Not for anything?"

"Not anything."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"What? You don't trust this face?"

I laugh, but I still pretend to be real reluctant-like. "Ooookay… but that don't include helping you if you happen to slip and fall on your own pool of blood and choke to death on your beard."

"I'll make an extra point of avoiding that."

I nod. Although I _had_ planned to ditch this 'Public jockey as soon as we got planet-side, I didn't count on the Sith getting proactive and setting up an iron-grid on the planet while I was out cold.

"Okay, deal," I say and spit on my palm before holding it out. For the second time, Republic impresses me. He doesn't even wince before spitting on his own and sealing the bargain.

"Well then, partner." I say, hitching up my belt. "The sooner we git going, the sooner we gonna find your girlfriend and _git_."

"She's not my girlfriend," mutters Scruffy, "But we should get going. We can use this apartment as a base while we get some equipment and supplies in the Upper City, maybe try to find a few leads. Keep a low profile while you're out. I've heard some grim stories about the Sith interrogation techniques, and they say the Force can do terrible things to a mind: they say it can wipe away your memories and destroy your very identity. I wouldn't want either one of us, and especially Bastila, to fall into their hands."

My smile suddenly falls flat. "Er, interrogation? ...!"

Scruffy turns and catches the way I'm starting to look kinda pale.

"But I'm sure if we don't do anything stupid we should be okay." He hastens to add, "I mean, after all, they're looking for Bastila, not a couple of grunts like us."

_I am going to die_. Very painfully. String my entrails around my neck and strangle-me-to-death kind of bad. This might get worse than the time I threw up on the Nar Hutta gangsters. What was I thinking, joining up with a hero-type? I can almost hear my own agonizing screams already. The very idea of completely rearranging a person's memories and identity… Thank goodness I already took a dump. I really wouldn't wanna wet my drafty trousers right now. But I shook on it… and that still meant something… I think.

"Well let's move out, soldier."

"Sir, yessir, Captain Tighty-pants!" I say and salute half-heartedly, trying hard not to think about how much bantha I was really in.

"Don't you think that's a little inappropriate?"

"Oh, absolutely, sir," and I add in a conspiratorial whisper: "But don't worry, I won't tell if you won't." I grin nervously.

That actually gets me a smile. _You know, you're really not so bad when you smile, Hot Stuff. Almost handsome, really, though still about as disgustingly wholesome as Ossus-style sliced bread …_

I pull myself back. Scruffy's started saying something—

"I did some scouting while you were out cold, and I think…"

—no, wait, bo_ooooring_. I'm sure it'd all come back to me if it's important. It always does.

Tighty-pants is up against some stiff competition now, anyway. I get this sinking feeling in my stomach that it's a really ugly, dangerous, Sith-infested world out there, and my mind — as well as my bowels — start swimming in all of the possibilities of how I could die. I'm no hero, and I don't pretend to be. And then it suddenly occurs to me that Scruffy wasn't the easy mark I pegged him for. Somehow, the cooze not only got the whole situation turned around, but he got it turned around in _his_ favor.

_I am _such_ a friggin' nerf-herder!_ _This is got to be the last time I'm going to trust a pilot, ever._

It takes us just a moment to strap on our guns and step outside, and the edges of an argument are drifting down the hall. "When in Bochaba's name did you even have time to look at my service records again…?" I start…

But on the back of my neck the skin is prickling and I feel my legs preparing to buckle as the sounds of the argument heat up. Fear floods my mind — cold, beaded, sweat-droplet-casing-down-my-back kinda fear that makes me wanna bury myself in the smallest hole on Dagobah and never, ever come out. _Oh, I have such a bad feeling about this…_

We step into the hall. Blaster fire flies by my head, missing me by about an inch. Years of trained instinct kick in and I hug the ground and try to hide myself behind the closest solid object. Unsuccessfully, I try to crawl between Scruffy's legs. He's already pulling something loose from its holster and is shouting at the ruckus before me. _Oh no, don't attract attention to us!_

"Come and get it!" Scruffy yells._ Really! _What is it with these 'Publics and their battle taunts anyway?

_I have such a bad, bad feeling about this._

Behind us, the autodoors close with a soft finality.

_Swoosh._

"_Master Vandar…"_

"_Yes, young Revan?"_

"_Do Jedi ever take their clothes off?"_

"_Well, that's an unusual question, little padawan. Of course we do. Jedi must bath and rest and change clothes just like anyone else."_

"_What if it's not for baths or to change clothes, but it's like really, really important, like they're trying to save someone really cold in the snow?"_

"_Perhaps, in such an extreme circumstance, the code might be set aside in the name of preservation."_

"_What about if it's a joke?_

"_The hypothermia or the removal of clothes?"_

"_Um… the clothes."_

"_Then, no. Now, why do you ask, young one?"_

"_Well, because I had this vision, you see, and the Force told me that when I was all-growed up, I'd meet this man, and then I'd take off all my clothes, and…"_

**End.**

1/24/06 Ending changed. The original ending to this piece will be tacked on to a different chapter. Whoohoo reruns.


	2. The Importance of Wearing Helmets Part 1

**THE IMPORTANCE OF WEARING HELMETS, PART 1**

_Because gags that keep going on and on and on and on still don't get any funnier by themselves. A continuation of the adventures begun in "Just Another Crazy Beginning" and "Beauty, the Loo, and Captain Tighty-Pants." And on and on and on and on…_

_And on and on and on and on…_

**TARIS: UPPER CITY: 1800 (STILL DAY 3)**

I taste iron in my mouth. The right side of my face is swollen, too. That face-plant into the wall must've broken my jaw, but I can't feel it and I'm not in pain. Blood is guzzling down my neck. The mighty Raven Velis, Egregious Treasure Hunter Extraordinaire and Liberator of Found Goods… fallen so low. It's a tragedy.

I turn away from the mirror. _Deal or no, I'm going to brutalize that clod-eating-pile-of-bantha until Upper City of Taris don't shine._

Mr. Scruffy's innocent face peeps in around the doorframe. "Are you okay?"

"My headssh the shuiz offa _schutta-valloon_!"

"It's not that bad."

"Loo', it' shollen like a shtuffed gizshka!"

"You'll be alright. We'll make a trip to the medical center."

"Oi hate you. Thish ish all your fault."

"My fault?"

"Oimgonnakillsh_youwhenthishisallover_-"

"Maybe you should consider just not talking, full stop."

"$-#&-$#&-$&$-#$&-$#, flyvoy!"

The bastard's actually smirking. _And_ shaking his head, "Is that the best you've got?"

"_$#$-&$#-&$#&$&-$&#$-&$-#_!"

"Alright, alright. I'll be here tomorrow, too. Good to know your expressive vocabulary remains undamaged. You must be damn-near one of the most persistent people I've ever met."

"_$#$-&$#-&$#&$&-$&#$-&$-#_."

"That's what I'm talking about."

I glare at the stinking-gonad-for-brains and try to conjure up the most vehement punishment. Slow death over a thousand years in the pit of the Sarlacc, or thirty straight days of watching Gungan courtship rituals on DiscoverNet. I can't decide.

"Thish ish in violassion of oor deal."

"Na-uh," Republic Denial shakes his head. "_You're_ the one who rammed your own face into the wall; that had nothing to do with me. Why did you duck, anyway?"

_Because I like breathing without blaster holes in my chest, you fraggin' idiot_. If looks could kill, there'd be laser beams from my eyes.

"You know you could have hit the door-panel and just stepped back into the apartment, don't you?" Blinding, gonad-cleaving lasers.

"Hey, did that blow do some damage to your eyes, you're looking kinda—" _Lottsa lasers._

"—er, right. Here, let me take a look at that." Orange leads me to the table and sits me down in the chair. "We still have some bandages left over from the medkit I used earlier…"

His hands are warm against the sticky mess that's my face and neck, fingers running firmly down the jaw line, deft as he presses along the bone. I can feel the blaster calluses lining his fingers and palm, but his touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender, as he wipes away the blood with a wet towelette before applying the adhesive seal and wrapping more bandages around my head.

"O_ooowww_," I complain.

"Don't whine," he chides, "Your jaw isn't broken. Just a little bruised, is all."

I try to pout, but my swollen cheek's stuck.

"That should hold you until we get to the Med Center. Dr. Zelka Forn's a friend of the Republic, and I'm sure he'll have you patched up in no time. Good thing med services are free in Taris – one of their many 'human sentient' perks." He frowns as if it's a bad thing. "They're got complete coverage for all their citizens and impressive privileges for _human_ visitors as well." I nod, still wondering where he thought the drawback came in. We head out the door for a second time, my mouth nearly sealed shut by the lump of cloth around my face.

I pause to kick the body of the Sith thug who's the source of all my pain. All this trouble and he only had twelve creds and a lousy pocket switchblade when Republic Two-Gun was done. I sigh, resigned. I'm gonna need a really dishonest job _fast_ if I was ever going get off this over-developed planetoid.

A wave of hot speeder exhaust and the taste of ozone greet us as we step outside. It's night out over Golden Taris, but you can hardly tell. The planet is one big city of many things, but the most marked of which is the sharp divide between the economic status of its Upper citizens, and the denizens of the Lower City. The top half acts like the world belongs to them, and admittedly, for some it's actually true. The rest of the podgies, however, live in a state of self-deluded grandeur only rivaled by the kind of vadge-trash you get outta an Ithorian on a glitter trip; you can practically see the marks drawn in concentric circles over their fat backs, like nerfs pegging for a slaughter. But the preds of any urban jungle know well-enough to keep to their own, and way I hear it, the Exchange has got its grip sunk pretty vicious in this town. No one touches the top-heavy Tarisians so long's the Exchange is milking them, and the 'Thorities are paid more than enough to look the other way. _Politics_. It keeps the fat bastards happy and the black market buzzing. Meanwhile, the rest of the rots settle it out in the lower regions, and when all's said and done, I think I prefer the more straightforward sort of dishonesty that lurks in the bollocks of Taris over its gilded, golden counterpart. If nothing else, no one has to cash to fall into bribery.

But for the moment, what with the store signs clashing for Most Blindingly Garish display of the night, and the woozy, red kaleidoscopic vision caused by the blood clots over my eyes, I am making hazards at keeping up with Tightpants, the fuzzy light blur of his orange back moving too-fast away, too-quick for my legs to catch up.

I've just about lost sight of him when I collide into something, an annoyed "Ooompf!" rolling out my mouth as my head sinks into a nose-full of bantha dregs and cheap intoxication.

"H_eeeeeey_," the loud and walking smell greets, "What's this, boys? C'mere and check it out!" The odor resolves into a couple of hairy hands and thick legs stuffed up into a patchy gray jumpsuit, with stained, yellow teeth grinning down at me as I look up. "It looks wot of 'em new alien whatsits, 'ey? Haha! What're you doing here, then, short stuff? Get lost trying to find yer mothership?" The others behind Loud and Smelly — a lanky man with a bushy mustache, a red-nosed thug, and an even uglier cooze wearing a belt with a buckle the size of Peragus — gaffaw appreciatively.

I try to work my way around the drunk, but fat phiz just won't move. "Geouva vy way, fafan!" I grumble into the cloth around my head.

But he's too busy making obnoxious gestures with his hands to notice, pointing at me while winking at his friends, as if I'm not standing right here, miming Gungan ears over his head.

"You ssshouldn't be wandering ort here, buddy, not 'mongst us humans. Now youse gottsa pay us a _toll_." Bushy-Beard butts in.

"Oi onna ut you ouwn an guvva leeva ishka!"

"Oho! This one's got a temper, boys!" Loud-Smell says and gets another chuckle from his skag-worm posse. I settle for glaring sullenly. "Whattsa matter squirt, Cathar got your tongue?"

"We're not looking for any trouble," Republic's thin voice cuts through from behind, and I crane my neck around just to see him, "Just a couple of travelers down on our luck, trying to get on our way. How 'bout you cut us a little slack, fellas?"

"_Spacers_," Red-Nose spits out from behind Loud-Smell, "We ain't taking no orders from you, scum!"

"Yeah!" Peragus-Belt joins in, hooting. "Who you think you are, swooping in 'ere and taking our wimmim?"

_Oh yeah. As if a palatic dirt-face like yerself could ever get a "wimmim" you didn't have to pay for, you tauntaun-bollicking gimp._ Red-Nose gives me a strangled look, as if I'd said it out loud. I stop, my hand halfway to my pockets, and grin innocently him through bloody teeth. I don't want to attract more attention, but I catch sight of Republic's mouth about to open again and probably get us into a whole bantha-load more trouble. I have to make my decision fast, so I jam my hand into my pockets and pull out a fistful, waving the other hand to get everyone's attention.

"Ay shaygehd!" I shout and flap my free hand in Loud-Smell's face "Oike ish!" and I let loose, creds spilling out my fingertips into the air, like silver and blue mynocks, making their inebriated eyes to bulge greedily at the sight of cash. As the first of the small disks start hitting the ground, I duck into the opening past Peragus's huge belt and use the opportunity to check his pockets. The large oaf is distracted by the shiny, but somehow manages to clip me a lucky one as he lunges for the creds, his thick fists clocking on my noggin just before I'm clear. I fall, left arm and elbow bent awkwardly beneath me, the other covering my face, and not for the first time, I really wish I had a helmet, or a face-mask, or _anything_, really, for this damn stupid, idiotic heroing business.

Now something's pulling on my leg, dragging me down, and I kick desperately, trying to get away. "Hey, _HEY!_ _Ouch, my eye…_ Hey, watch it, it's me!" And I realize it's the pilot-jockey's arm, pulling me away from the melee. I go limp. "Are you alright?" he asks, hauling me out and tossing me like a sack of chuff over his shoulder. "I think we could have talked that out!" he mutters as we start running down the street, "We're trying to keep a low profile, remember?"

He thinks _I_ was causing a commotion? "Thugs oike shiny thingsh!" I slurr back and try to shrug as best I can. I can't believe the old coot. _As if I'd ever go looking for this grade of trouble. Amateur_.

We attract even more eyes as he dashes down the street with me onboard, and I wave politely to the passersby, as if being hiked around by a doofus soldier was a completely normal activity that I did everyday. Which, sadly, isn't that far off sometimes, what with all the death warrants and the occasional piloting-under-the-influence arrests and all.

Razor-Impaired finally lets me down as we near the clinic some six blocks away, and we manage to slip through the doors without any further drunken encounters. The center is open twenty-six hours, all day and night, and we're greeted at the entrance by one of the curmudgeonliest orderlies I've ever seen.

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy? Go talk to Zelka Forn if you want something!" he screams, waving a long syringe irritably towards the inner rooms, perhaps looking to poke an eye out. I cover my face with my hands, and peer out between the cracks as Orange leads me in, and I can't help but notice the words "Gurney" printed in big, bold, san-serif letters on Shrieky the Medic's chest as we walk away. _With a stupid name like that, I guess I'd want someone to carry me away in a stretcher too_, I tell myself.

"That's not funny!" The nurse shrieks, as we walk away, "YOU THINK I HAVEN'T HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE! I'VE HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE!"

"What did you say to him?" Republic asks after we pass out of earshot. He glances back, "That orderly's face is all scrunched up like a kinrath pup."

I blink a little uncertainly, which is the most expression I can get right now on my increasingly numb face. In the white light of the clinic, I notice for the first time that Flyboy's got a purple patch the size of a speeder transponder spreading across his left eye. "Wha' thappen twoo thor aye?" I ask, pointing to him and then to my own eye.

He gives me a sour look. _What's that supposed to mean?_ He's about to speak when a rusty medical droid ambles up and cuts Scruffy off with a series of beeping introductions.

Dwooweet Dewoo: _Please state your name and purpose._

"'Ere duh shee da doc," I reply, mumbling carefully around the cloth. "Isshy fwee?"

Beep-bewoop. Doweet: _Of course. May I please have your name and identification?_

"_Thy Lanthime_," I slur through the bandages, ignoring Scruffy's puzzled look. The droid beeps and prints out an examination waiver for me to sign, which I take and scribble something on the sig line before handing back and turning to look at Agent Orange, "_Low Pwofile, wewenbwer_?" His eyebrows don't lower, but he keeps quiet as the old droid leads us over to Patient Examination Station #4.

Against the far side of the med center, a mellow-looking chap with a droopy mustache and matching eyes is puttering around a secure-looking door glancing nervously over his back as he wipes his hand over his bald head over and over again. We're led out of sight to the room right next door, but the man follows right along in a moment, all fluttery hands and sweaty brow, with darting, anxious eyes. The droid introduces the man as the Doctor Forn I'm here to see. Judging by the feathery pink lines around his irises and the greasy gray pallor of his brown skin, I'd dare say Doc Modern is a little too fond of his own medicine.

"Ty Landime?" he asks, reading off the report from the droid. He looks me up and down and then at the paper, entirely unconvinced by my clever disguise.

"Whassapdothk?" I say, friendly-like, and wink at him with my good eye, sliding him the stimmer's shake as he extends his hand, a move that causes a glimmer of recognition to twitch across his face. He catches himself and the eyes narrow, even though I'm giving him the two thumbs up and a wink to let him know we're on the same side. Tighty looks confused, but no one bothers to explain. I sit down on the patient table and wait for the Doc to inspect me.

He purses his lips but doesn't bat a lash as he checks my injuries, cutting away the crusted rust and red threads, wiping off the blood with something stinging before stuffing my face, literally, with a foamy kolto seal. Doc Forn doesn't ask questions, and as he's finishing up, I can't help thinking that he is my kind of doc.

"Don't move your head and don't talk for the next ten minutes," The bald medic says to me as he finishes setting the healing mask, "it'll take about that long for the outer skin to heal."

He then gives me the usual eye and ear inspection, taking extra time to prod around my brain-crate and examine the neck area, saying, "Looks like you two have seen a lot of action," the last bit as much for Scruffy's bruised eye as it is for me, "Get in a fight on the way over?"

"Nhaaa," I say, thick-tongued.

"Don't talk," Doc snaps.

"Just a few drunks as unhappy to see a few down-on-their-luck spacers as we were to see them, that's all. Er, 'Ty' fell off a speeder," Scruffy offers in lame explanation while rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, an obvious tell that makes me wanna slap him: _You frackin' idiot, don't make it so obvious you're lying!_

"Turn around and let me take a look at the damage on the back…" Doc says to me, either not noticing Republic's giveaway, or not caring. "Ah… right… it's like I thought…"

"_Wha? Meh?_"

"One more out of you and I'll patch this the old fashioned way — _with stitches_. And trust me, kid, that leaves scars even laser surgery won't fix."

I gulp, nodding, and zip, and try to count the dust motes in the air instead of talking.

"You two are Offworlders, right?" Scruffy gives a careful nod.

"You the legal guardian?" Doc asks the pilot, and Hot-Pants stutters.

"Er, well, I guess… Uhm. Yes. I can make legal decisions."

Doc nods and waves him out. "Good. Could we please step outside and talk for a moment?"

_I'm still heeeere!_ I try to broadcast telepathically in case that worked — I totally saw that on a Jedi space opera once and it was so _freezie_ — but no one pays any heed. Doc looks down at me, unconcerned, and asks, "Has anyone talked to you lately about the importance of wearing _helmets_?"

What kind of idiot naffing question is that? _If my whole face wasn't sealed because of this mask…_ I settle for staring skeptically at the Doc.

"We – have – a – great – informational – vid – on – it – right – here," Clueless continues, clipping the end of each word as if it's wrapped plasteel. "I – will – play – it – for – you – now – while – we – wait – for – the – kolto – patch – to – settle."

"Mmm-momhmn." I manage, lips pressed carefully together. I glance over for Ossus Bread, but he's already gone. The odd Doc Forn is just opening up some wall compartments when I catch sight of the racks upon racks of processed stims sitting, _forlorn_ and _neglected_, on the cabinet shelves. It's enough to make my squinty eyes to go wide, and I have to whip my head away just so's it's not completely obvious that I'm staring. Doc rummages about and pulls out a syringe before grabbing the remote and dropping a squeaky flatscreen from the ceiling.

An overly-friendly female voice begins speaking as the lights flick off and the screen glows blue.

"_Welcome. This is the Sith Imperial Helmets and Armour Equipment Training Video. For your safety, please pay close attention to the instructions on your monitor as we take you through the step by step process of donning the new Scintillus 34-K Retrograde helmet and armour…"_

My brain is juicing with excitement and my hands and legs feel noodlely as Doc hits me with some kind of med before stepping out of the room, letting the safety information vid run of its own accord. "I'll be back in ten," he says before vanishing out the door with a soft _swoosh_. _Major scoozie!_ I sing in my head, and I'm practically prancing to the cabinets, my hands on the lock with a security tunneler I'd pick it up offa Gurney and hum lightly to myself (he had 'em, I took 'em, I didn't bother with details like asking why).

It's a ridiculously low-grade lock for my skill and the kind that'll pop before you can even say, "I'm a dober-eating Gammorean." In the background, the Sith vid is still babbling and I half-listen in, for lack of anything better to do.

"… _Step Two: adjusting your headpiece. Your Sith Retrograde helmet is designed to adjust to fit all head shapes and sizes, provided you are a human male or female, of medium weight and standing a minimum of five feet six inches in height. Locate the re-adjuster button in the lower left corner of your new helmet. Turn the dial until…"_

_Beep-beep-beep-beep_. _Click. _It's the lock. _Beep-beep-beep-crklinktttt… _CRACK.

_Huh? _I look down at the half of a security tunneler in my hand. _Uh…_ I don't think this was supposed to happen.

I claw at the other half of the security tunneler with my fingernails and manage to jerk it out, frowning._ I'd done this a hundred times, why was it…?_ I shake my head, trying to focus. I pocket both the halves of the tunneler and slit the lock with ex-Sithboy's switchblade instead, inelegant as that is. _What did I do wrong?_ I wonder as I stuff stims and spice packs into my pockets as fast I can. The vest holds a good number of shots and the few kolto patches I find go into the back of my pants. I break the security tunneler into smaller pieces and stuff them in between the two pieces of the lock to seal it. I'm just done closing up the panels when Reedy's voice cuts in through the turmoil like a knife.

"_What_ do you think you're doing?"

"Er," _Holy Hothmonger!_ I had forgotten about him. "Nwoice cabwinetwy?" I say, moving quickly while trying not to open my mouth.

The pilot frowns, waves of suspicion sloughing off him. I smile. Strolling casually, I wander back and plunk down to watch the blue-tinged dust-motes on my patients' table.

_Grooourourrroooo… _says my stomach. I sigh. Stims can keep you going for so long, but even spice has to wear off at some point, and that's when the desires for food and nourishment eventually catch up. My arms and legs are feeling kinda weak, too, probably the adrenaline rush of near-death experiences finally wearing off. In fact, I feel awfully tired, like my eyelids were too heavy, and maybe I should get that checked by doc, but I can't see too clear, it's all going…

_ZZZzzzzzzzz…_

* * *

"_Malak, I think you're gonna make a great best friend."_

"_Revan, you and I met _yesterday_."_

"_Si? I have good instincts about these kinds of things, trust me."_

"_Trust you? I don't even know you! You've got to be crazy, kid." _

"_But I'm a crazy kid with Force-visions."_

"_So?"_

"_So, I know you have a major crush on Naira."_

"_That's a lie."_

"_Jedi don't lie."_

"_You're not a Jedi."_

"_But I will be. And I'm destined to be one of the best."_

"_That doesn't mean anything."_

"_No, not now, anyway. But I do know you spied on her when she was bathing."_

"_And how could you possibly know that?"_

"_Force visions, I keep telling you…"_

"_You've only mentioned it once."_

"_Did I? Oh, I must be confusing my past and future memories. So tell me, have you ever thought about shaving your head?"_

"_Are you trying to blackmail me, weird kid?"_

"_Okay, whatever. How about you just join up with me and we'll conquer the galaxy someday?"_

"_Yeah, right. 'Okay'. What do you want from me anyway, pipsqueak?"_

"_Don't call me—"_

"_Pipsqueak. Pipsqueak, pipsqueak, pipsqueak."_

"_You know, Malak, someday that big mouth is gonna cost you."_

"_I'm sorry, what was that? You'll have to yell louder, you're kinda short down there, and the sound doesn't carry so well, PIPSQUEAK!"_

"_Nevermind. Just help me break into Master Kreia's archives next week and I don't tell Master Kavar you were spying on his beloved pupil's special bath-time."_

"_What!"_

"_I had a vision about it. Something about finding a 'Star Map'."_

"_Oh, right, like that explains anything…"_

**End.**


	3. The Importance of Wearing Helmets Part 2

**THE IMPORTANCE OF WEARING HELMETS, PART 2**

_Helmets? Helmets? A helmet's got nothing to do with it. Continuing the misadventures of the intrepid Captain Scruffy and his drug-addled sidekick Revan — uh, Raven — now augmented with 98 percent more arguments, action, and a rule-breaking format change! Oh, and don't forget to bring your towel along for the trip! _

_(Kudos go out to DarthRedHead for proof-reading this chapter before it was watered down for the public consumption. If you don't find yourself choking over a watershed of typos, you'd better have her to thank for it._)

**TARIS: UPPER CITY: 1930 (DAY 3)**

"How are you feeling?"

_Huh?_

"How are you feeling?"

I crack open my eyes. Above me appear to be hanging the cavernous nostrils of — I squint at the plastic name tag on the jacket — Doctor Zelka Forn, Intergalactic MD.

"_Eeeughaa_!" I shriek and roll off the sides of the table. My head is wobbly like one of those bobble-toys people buy to put in the cruiser dashboard. I don't think I've even drunk enough to be drunk, but I can't remember even drinking anything in the first place. It seems I'm in some kind of sterile room with floating balls of robot circling the entrance. I study the six foot tall ball of orange bending over me, which I think I recognize as one of the characters on a children's holovid.

I'm confused when this anthropomorphic color starts trying to pick me up.

"Do I know you?" I inquire politely, which I feel is uncharacteristic, but I don't know why. I take another look around at the clear kolto tanks in the room before opening my mouth again. "Wait, where the Hoth-buggers am I?"

"You're in the operation center," explains the doctor, "I had to put you under for the surgery."

"Surgery?"

"To remove your injector."

"My _what_?"

It all rushes back. What the Hoth am I doing being polite to the vadge-sucker pilot? Screw him! He's the one who landed me in this doped-up mess in the first place. _That nagger-biting-douche-phizzor_. I spring up and throw myself at the Republic, forcing him back against the wall with more force than he's expecting. The wide-eyed mix of shock and surprise on his face is well worth it and I wonder what else I can do to terrify him. "You fracking arsemonger… What injector did you take?"

His brown eyes don't waver and the doctor answers instead, "This. The device is heavily modified and couldn't be removed by normal means so we had to operate under heavy medications, which meant―"

My hands tingle. I can feel a crackle almost like electricity on my fingers. I'm having trouble focusing. Pain is screaming through the blood vessels in my ears and eyes. I dimly think that the level of anger I'm feeling is a little out of proportion to the situation, but to my credit, no decent rim-walker would ever part with an implant it unless it was over someone's very dead body.

I let go of the pilot and move towards the Doc, upending a tray of tools and batting aside droids, my whole body tipping forward for the attack. I aim for his dark, sagging neck, and gauge how far I'd have to lunge in order to strangle it.

"_No one gave you permission to touch me, worm_." The voice is cold and hoarse and doesn't sound like me at all. I have only a second before an irresistible urge takes over and my arms rip forward, faster than anyone can react. I've got the man in a vice grip before Flyboy is even on to me, yelling and pulling, trying to pry my fingers loose from the lab-coat's neck.

"Snap out of it! Hey! What are you doing? Hey, _HEY_!"

_SLAP._

What? The world comes back into focus. The orderly Gurney is goggle-eyed before me and his face is all red and splotchy. This isn't the doctor. I turn to glare Republic right in the eye. Both his arms are gripped firmly around my waist and elbows, pulling me away. I kick and scream as he hauls me bodily away: "You bloody kinrath-naffing, smek-eating, bantha-kissing cockpit monkey, leggo of me _RIGHT NOW_!"

He pins me against the corner of the room, using the walls as a barrier framed by his body.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF TARIS IS ALL THIS ABOUT?"

"I kill you dead!"

"What?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you!"

"YES, YOU DO!"

"NO, I DON'T!"

"YES YOU DO BECAUSE I AM YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER!" His face is right up against mine, and I can feel the hot breath off my cheek. I try to wiggle enough room to sock him a good one in the nadgers, but he responds by just pressing me harder against the wall.

"I'M NOT ONE OF YOUR STUPID SOLDIERS! I'M NOT, I'M NOT, I'M NOT NOW LEMME GO, YOU HAIRLESS WOOKIEE!"

"HARILESS WOOKIEE? Alright, just… just… just calm down before your head explodes!"

I want to yell and tear his hair out, but I'm out of breath and I really can't think of anything else to say. He's panting just as heavily, flushed, and at this angle I finally notice the pattern of pale scratch marks highlighting his face. Scruffy takes a deep breathe and counts to ten slowly before continuing, "You were just under for an hour for surgery, that's all."

"You knew?"

"Well, yeah. They asked me to sign the papers―"

"―_and you let them? _Oh, I really am going to kill you so bad."

His arms my shoulders start to tighten again, but then he changes his mind and lets go. "I don't know how you got it past the Republic with an illegal implant on you, but from now on, you've got to go clean and sober, soldier."

"How many times so I need to tell you? I'm not your solider,_ cockpit_." I spit out the word as if it were something dirty.

"Yeah? Well what are you then? Because it seems pretty suspicious to me that—" He stops. "No, right now is not the time for this." I follow his gaze to the orderly and the Doc, who've moved to the operation table to patch the droid nurse.

"This isn't over," I tell Scruffy as he relinquishes his grip. I throw him a frown I hope is properly venomous.

"I think I liked you better when you were asleep."

"_What_?"

"I said it's so much better _now that you can speak_."

"Huh? Oh, right." I touch my cheek. There's a slight upraised area where the kolto seal was applied, but the skin is otherwise smooth and whole. "Good medicine."

The doctor's applying something to the nurse, but stops long enough to give us both a very stern frown. "If you are done terrorizing my assistants and my droids, please get the hex out of my hospital this instant. Don't even bother to take care of the bill at the door. We'll have it covered by the Sapient Security fund so you can just leave right now, right away."

I run both hands down the sides of my pockets.

"But—"

"Raven, I think we'd better—"

"But—"

"_Raven_—"

By now I've finished taking stocks. Looks like no one bothered to take anything out when they checked me in for this appointment. "Oh, fine, oh fine. We'll go now." I put on a sullen face for the doctor to hide my glee and snatch the injector off the table. "This is mine," I say and fix him with a glare, just in case. He waves me off dismissively.

"And you don't have to bother coming back," the wannabe tough-guy Gurney bleats belatedly after us, "you're not welcome here at all!" I don't even both looking back when I flip him off.

We wander again into the heat of the night, the lights of Taris flickering like so many Telosian firebugs gone on some sort of psychedelic, multi-colored joyride. I whistle a tune as we stroll down Centrifuge Boulevard, hands clamped to the two sides of my face, happy to have the use of my jowls back. With a pocket full of priceless meds and a stomach full of empty, there's little else a person could ask for, save to head on over to the nearest cantina and pick myself up some food, alcohol, and maybe an alien invitation to bed for the night. I've just about worked out the ideal situation for a Twi'lek-human threesome when the Five O'clock Shadow interrupts with his gloomy face.

"What?"

"We didn't finish our conversation in the medical center."

"What's there to say? You were going to blurt out that we're Republic refugees in everyone's faces and I was going to deny it. I was _never_ part of yer stinkin' crew anyway."

"And yet, it's more than a little surprising that you happen to be here, isn't it? J_ust what happened_ to be your position with the Republic fleet, anyway?"

"Public Relations."

"You must think I'm stupid."

"A little."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You got a problem with it?"

"_Hell no — except that as far as I've seen, you've got all the survival tact of a blind three-legged rancor! _And I just think it's a bit odd that someone who got added to the crew roster at the last minute just happens to be one of the survivors."

I start guiltily. How did he know ― oh, must've been on my service records. "I really don't know what you're talking about." _But don't look at the fingers I'm crossing behind my back!_ I've no plans to tell him about the transmission… it was accidental-like, I swear. It's not my fault the Republic's full of incompetent bureaucrats who need a little extra-greasy diplomacy on the go—I mean, so now it's all my fault that my employers were unscrupulous enough to hire _me_ to oil a few cogs in the Sith barricade network?

"I'm telling you, 'Pubbie, I had nothing to do with the crash."

"Well, let me ask you this―"

"The escape-pods? Uh, no, why? Why would you even want to ask me about that? I didn't have anything to do with it!"

"What? I hadn't even asked anything yet."

"Hah. Er. Okay. Uh, I'm sorry. I just had a bad flashback to hitting the wall of the escape pod on the way down ― _but really_ _can't remember a thing about it, dontchaknow_?"

"Yeah, uh, well, do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Because as your commanding officer, it is my duty to be here if—"

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"I am certified in basic field psychiatry."

"Is that why you're so paranoid?"

"Paranoid? You think I'm paranoid? Who's the one passing suspicious glances my way all the time!"

"See? That's just what I mean. I ain't given you no suspicious glances all day. I'm been awake for three hours and already you've been harping on me."

"Okay, this is just not coming out the right way." And all of a sudden, Flyboy decides it's a good time to stop inconveniently (and conspicuously) in the middle of Tarisian evening traffic, with his hands thrown half in the air and that look of perplexed frustration twisting lines across his face. Oh-so-obvious in his orange-plummaged glory, some of the interested looks on the passerby's faces are starting to look _too_ interested for my comfort.

"_Psss_!" I whisper at him, pulling at his sleeve, "_come on_."

"We need to talk."

"No, we don't!"

"_Now_." A beat. The two of us look each other square in the eye, and not for the first time, I curse the fatesthat had brought me together with Mr. Ossus Earnest Eyes. _He's actually serious_. _He really means it_._ He doesn't care that he's making a scene_?

I can't stand it. I break contact first and forge ahead, forcing him to follow if he wants to continue the conversation. "How about if I asked _you_ a few questions?

"Why?"

"Well, I just wante to, you know, get to know the situation better. But we don't have to talk if you don't want to."

"No, no. I'm fine. Go ahead and interrogate me."

"It's not an interrogation." Auntie Zinbara's beard, what did I ever do to deserve this man?

"_Fine_, go ahead and ask your _questions_."

"Fine! Do you know what happened to the Endar Spire?"

"Didn't we discuss this already? We were ambushed and outnumbered. Why do you think it crashed?"

"Well then, where were _you_ when the fight stared?"

"I…"

"You were probably too busy getting knickered with one of the control room wenches, weren't you?" I elbow him intentionally, hoping the distraction will get him off my case. "Handsome devil like yourself?" Flattery, Uncle Small Jho always said, will get you everywhere. "How's about getting over to the cantina and finding us some of those here, Hotshot?"

"No! To tell the truth, I was only onboard as an advisor for the most part. The battle began so fast, it's anyone's guess as to what actually happened. I'm just trying to figure it out, myself. I saw enough men lose their lives needlessly during the Mandalorian Wars. It's… difficult to see that happening all over again. We didn't choose that battle, anyway. It got forced on us. Hell, I'm just surprised that any of us are alive to talk about it. We lost the ship and a lot of good people… and for what? On the hope that Jedi powers would save us, somehow. Not that Bastila had much of an opportunity to act."

I sigh. I thought all pilots loved chasing tail? N_ooooo_, I get the one with the paranoid Jedi complex.

"You don't seem to like the Jedi much." _In fact, you don't seem to like anyone much._ I don't know why, but the thought makes me a little sad. But I keep the last bit to myself.

"Don't get me wrong, it just seems odd that someone Bastila's party specifically requested to transfer aboard happened to survive."

"Bloody buggers! Look, the Jedi requested a bloody number of things when they came on board, by Hoth, they practically took over the ship as far as I could tell! What's so odd about me being added to the crew at the last minute? And if superstition and fear of coincidences is all you've got…"

"I just don't like surprises, that's all."

"Are you getting all freaky paranoid on me again?"

"I just wanted you to know that doesn't mean I'm going to stop watching you or being wary. I'm just not built that way. Period."

What did I do to set off the string of hostilities? "Alright! Fine! Watch my toochus until the nerfs come home for all I care. _What ever did I do to you, anyway_?"

"You, uh… haven't done anything yet. But there's no guarantee that you won't do anything in the future. I've been betrayed before by people and I… well, it won't happen again."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever." Not like I'm looking for a best friend, anyway, especially not in a psychologically-impaired pilot. "There's just no winning with people like you who're―"

"― and if you're smart, you won't trust anyone either."

"Oh yes, _because I could betray you at any moment_. It would be _sooo_ horrible." I roll my eyes. As if outright betrayal wasn't already on the agenda as soon as I figured a way off of this rock? What kind of do-goody kinda hick was he? I figure if Scruffy didn't figure, I wasn't going to tell him.

"Hey, I don't remember ever saying anything about 'traitor'! All I mean is that if you're smart, you won't trust anyone… not me, not Bastila and especially not yourself. I don't know that you'll betray me. But there are no guarantees… not for you, not for me. You don't have to take it personally."

"I'm not taking it personally!"

"Look… I'm not trying to insult you. This is just the way I am, no need to take it personally."

"As if I care!"

"Look… I don't expect you to be my friend. This is just the way I am."

"Fine!" I throw up my hands. One moment he wants to be my streetside therapist and the next he's accusing me of blowing up his bloody Republic ship. Talk about personal issues.

Scruffy sighs. "I knew you wouldn't understand where I was coming from. Let me try to explain." _No shikie, gizka-brain_. But by now red flags are flying all over my sensors. I am so not smashed enough for this conversation.

"NO! Uh, I mean, no, that's quite alright. I understand already, thanks, I really do… I'm very good with the understanding. See? This is me understanding you. I totally get it. You're just cautious. Yeah. Perfectly fine to be cautious. I'd like to add it as my middle name, in fact. Captain Cautious, that's you, now can we please just got to the cantina and get something to drink?"

"A drink? I… I guess that's alright. What time is it? We should probably get something to eat too. Ahhh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it, even if you asked. I just find you, I don't know… easy to talk to. Look, I appreciate you listening like this. Maybe I'll tell you all about it sometime… uhm… later."

Later. Uh oh. I don't like where this is going. Maybe I should have saved this conversation for later…

But it's already too late. We're here. He's gesturing now, inviting my straight into the krayt's den, and for a moment, I hesitate. If I enter, there'll be no turning back. I wonder if there could possibly be enough alcohol in all the galaxy to get me through a night of listening to the life story of Captain Tighty-Pants, Rebel Wangster in Tangerine. I could run away and joint he traveling circus, maybe, forget the whole saving-my-life thing and pawn the meds I took from the hospital. I could turn this all around. But then my stomach turns traitor and growls, and I remember that I haven't had anything to eat in about three days, and the glitterstem buzz is waaay past any stage of kickin' me high.

"Coming?" he asks, as if he isn't planning to stab about a thousand whiny knives into my eardrums.

There is_ no way_ I'm going in, unless… well…

"You're buying," I say. And I step inside.

_Woosh._

* * *

"_Ooooo, I dunno what I'm doin' toniiiight, and I gotta feelin' that sumthin' ain't riiiight! Hey, Mal," I singsong to the man at my right, "Whaddaya wanna do tonight, huh? Try and take over the galaxy!" I guffaw. "Get it, hey? Hey?" I laugh some more. Sometimes, I'm just too damned funny for my own good._

"_My name is not… Mal."_

"_I am genuinely shocked! You mean you're not Malcolm Reynolds, Captain of the Fire-up-Yer-Bug! But you're, you're my heeeero!" I blubber. "Hero of the Republic, ain't that whattcha are? Can't hide who you are, Mal, haunts all of us inssssides. Ain't nothing in the 'verse can stop you from being who you truly are. You gotta believe in that, you just gotta believe. In something, anything. I really don't care… Just don't forget to invite me to the wedding, you hear? I wanna be there for Jolee to convince me to get drunk enough to start stripping!" _

_I fall over, giggling hysterically because I can see it already and I know it's going to be pretty damned funny._

"_Yeah, yeah, c'mon, let's get you back to the apartment before you start taking your clothes off in the streets."_

"_I'm a Scorpio, y'know, Mal. You know what that means? I have no idea what that means!"_

"_Right, right, whatever. C'mon, foot in front of the other, soldier. There we go…"_

"_No, no, really, Mal… Mal… I don't think we shoulda opened that shutta door, man. That really wossname, was a bad idea, yeah. You were right, man, tell your sister you were right about me… Red really isn't my color."_

"_Er, yeah…"_

_I beam at him brightly, my new best friend, and grin to let him know that it is all going to be alright in the end. Everything is so pretty on Taris… the sparkling lights, the fluffly trails of exhaust spread out against the sky, the exploding buildings and people a few days down the line. _

_And he has such a lovely duck on his head, too._

"_You know, that's a word that is both a verb and a noun." I smile dreamily at him, all the way to Coruscant. Or, at least, I think my smile went all the way to Coruscant. It's hard to tell when I can't see myself._

"_I did good din't I? 'Cuz I got us tuh Sith armor." _

"_Yeah, yeah, you did good, kid."_

"_That Sith chick really dug me. She must've thought I was hot… You think I'm hot Carthy? You think Bastila's gonna like me?" He's kinda quiet. Sometimes people just suddenly stop talking, and Uncle Small Jho always said you should let them be 'cuz you never know if they're gonna be having one of those moments of silence. _

"_I just wanted her like me."_

"_She'll like you plenty, Raven, I'm sure."_

"_How 'bout you? Do you like me?"_

"_Well… honestly, I'm starting to warm―"_

"_Hang on." I don't have time to listen to the pilot's response because the stars have already started singing. "Oh, goody! The Sixteenth Sidereal Mon Calamarian Symphony!" It's being played a little too loudly for my tastes, so I make a note to remind the second movement not to bray so heavily on the pnematuba horns. Details. I've never studied music in my life, but this doesn't bother me. I lean and sigh against the comfort of the orange jacket, putting it out of my mind, just hanging there in the moment, a nameless nobody and my best bud, a soft sort of snort rumbling out my nose to announce to him that I've about fallen asl―_

**End.**


	4. Don’t Finish Your Sentences If You’re…

**DON'T FINISH YOUR SENTENCES IF YOU'RE PARANOID**

_In which the wacky Republic soldiers' misfortune continues, and much hilarity ensues. _

_Or maybe not._

**TARIS:****UPPER CITY SOUTH: 0800 (Day 4)**

Warm. Soft. Musky. A bristle surface tickles the tip of my nose.

I just had the most horrible dream last night. I crash-landed on Nowheresville Taris, which just hasn't been the same since the Sith took over, and then I had to live with the most square-bound binary pilot I've ever met. He was possessed by an inexplicable resistance against shaving. And then we went to a bar, and he told me his whole damn life story, including all these gooey mushy bits about his necrophilia for his dead wife, Madonna-Morty-Mordor-tanna-something-or-the-other, this really hot red-headed babe came up and started hitting on me until this really ugly man with only two fingers started hitting on her, and then I slugged him really hard and this fat fairy Hutt with the opalescent wings flew in on rainbows and said I'd have to fight him, so I did, and then people started cheering and there was some more fighting, and I went back to her place with a couple of her guy friends and then…

The bristles shift beside me and murmur in a reedy alto that is altogether uncomfortably familiar.

Click._Oh. My. Fracking_._Crack._

I snap upright. _It wasn't a dream!_

Okay._ I'm awake._ And I next to me and under the covers is something that is warm and musky and… _oh, no_._No, no, no, no—EWW!_ I squint and lift up my side of the cover. _Nish_. I'm in the stark, raving naked bollocks, and there's a sentient who doesn't sound so much like any of the sweet Siths last night sleeping next to me, and there is only one question that can still raise its head at a point like this: _Do I even want to know?_

I decide not. Licking dehydrated lips, I start inching my way towards the edge of the bed hoping that what I ended up with last night will not be waking up. I'm halfway across the slow and discreet-like crawl to check for money on the dresser when suddenly it whispers, "Don't go, beautiful," from underneath the sheets.

I bolt, because there is no way in Dagobah now that I am sticking around for any of that sort of sentimental name-calling. First sobriquets, and next thing you know, vows and a commitment. _Damned if I'm a-gonna be one of those idiots!_

My legs, however, have other plans. In my panic I somehow wind them too many times around the covers and the tangled material halts my legs, so while my face is traveling in one direction, my body is going in the polar opposite, and I get a flash of vibrant orange stripes along a gray jumpsuit before I end up making double-time kissing the floor and—_SMACK!_supernovas are all I see.

"_MMMWAAAARRGH!_" Once again the jaw is out and my shoulders are screaming in pain, but even so I don't think I'm the one who called out …

"DON'T MOVE!" The voice in my ear rises and drags my shoulder's along with it. _Ow, ow, ow, the frackin' nubjob has my frackin' arms pinned behind my back_!

I start working it as soon as my face is off the ground. "Get the Hoth offa me you schutta jerkoff! I ain't got no weapons, a'right,_alright?_!" There is a moment of consideration while my arms continue on steady burn.

"Raven?" The pressure lifts. I collapse on to the floor, and clench the sheets, too spent to even glare.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing naked in my bed?"

"Did we get involved in some kind of roast last night?"

"Nothing happened!"

"You know, if I had a credit for every time I've heard or said that myself—"

"You were very _drunk_ and coming_ very hard _off of something!"

"Coming hard off something? You must mean your freakin' _life story_, right, loser? You get me rattled, razzle a good time, and next thing I know, _you're_ the one filing molestation charges, _Dagobah_."

"WHAT? All I remember is you asking me to wrap you in a few more thermal blankets! Said you were cold… or uh… something…"

"Like I'm gonna believe _that_ line again! 'Cuz I'm the villain here, is that it? Typical. Blame the victim, why dontcha?"

"_I_ should be the one feeling violated!"

"I was the one ripped to the tits!"

"WHAT?"

"Roaring drunk! Completely Jumad! You rogered my entire navy while I was smashin' rubbered!"

"Huh?"

"You heard me!"

Hard brown eyes dig into mine for a minute before a look of disgust completely wipes the expression from his eyes. Unkemptoid rises without a word, pacing the room nervously a few times while rubbing his palms up and down across his chest, as if trying to wipe away something dirty, or unclean.

"There's a lot more where that came from!" I call after him. I rise half-heartedly and let drop the bedsheets, debating whether I'm really angry enough to storm out of the apartment bollocks or no. I don't know why I let this naffing Gammorean pilot get under my skin. _Stupid, upright, bleeding heart idiot Ossus White Bread wouldn't even know a good thing if it hit him repeatedly in the head and caused subdual damage!_

"Do you really realize how serious your accusations are?" His eyes are back on me again, brown and black all around, tired and drained and fierce at the same time. The intensity makes me want to squat under what's available of the blankie over my head.

"_IwasjustsayingthatitwasreallysuspiciousyouendedupinmybedthatsallIdintreallythinkyouddoithonestI_—"

"You're accusing me of taking advantage of you _while you were incapacitated_."

"_WellifyoudlistentowhatImsayingIthinkyoullhearthatIwasreallyjustkindakiddingbecause_—"

"Do you have any idea how taboo and revolting that really is?" He sighs like I just put the whole weight of Taris on his shoulders. "Look, if anything really did happen to you, I promise right now that I will take complete responsibility, alright?"

"Uh…" Sincerity? This isn't exactly what I was expecting. Usually the marks are kinda sputtering and defensive the day after. Not honest and reflective and… stuff. I twitch a little uncomfortably. Did I really make the call on Space Case as a mark while I was drunk? I pinch my ears, feeling a little embarrassed. "You're not diseased or anything, are you?" I ask.

The quiet drags on for several minutes during until Scruffy moves on to one of the window chairs and seats himself, stiff as a board, his hands clenched into two white balls as he stares into the spaceport of the building next door. He doesn't really look at me, caught up in some memory, and I think he's even forgotten that I exist.

"So, uh, 'ave you ever heard of the one about the fat Twi'lek?" I venture.

Silence. Colder than an Alderaanian's vestal under-aged daughter. "S'not really a joke, y'see? Well, the joke is that you don't see any fat Twi'leks around for real, right? Uh… like he don't exist, get it? 'Cuz they're always so skinny and, uh… maybe I should go."

Orange doesn't even bat an eyelash. Faced with Mr. Catatonic, I begin pulling on tunics and trousers, suddenly embarrassed by my own nakedness.

"Aren't you going to give me orders? Tell me to go set up a watch or patrol or something? I mean, you _are_ the commanding officer, right?" It's like pulling teeth. My fingers catch awkwardly in the trouser straps, hands wet with sweat._Damned plasteel-weave fibers! Why, can't, I, ever, get, my, pants, on—_There

Pouty-eyes ain't even batting a lash on his stony face when he finally answers my question, "Surely we don't need to stand on ceremony? There's no point enforcing a strict hierarchy for two. I need your help finding Bastila and getting off this planet as much as you need me. Besides, what are you going to be able to guard us from? It's the middle of the day. We should probably stay in."

The words come out like blaster fire. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." I mutter and grab the stealth generator off the floor. "Going to find something to eat," I grunt as I walk towards the door.

"Did you hear anything that I just said?"

"Frack you, 'beautiful.' You use that line on all the sentients that come your way?"

From the corner of my eye, I can see as he's rising from the chair.

Words start to form on his lips, but he's already too late.

"That's cool, we don't need to talk!" I yell as I dodge into the hallway, a flick of the wrist activating the stealth shield to hide my getaway.

"Wai—!!" I hear before the doors close on whatever he had built up to say, the_swoosh_of the air collapsing with a soft finality. Without waiting to see if he was going to throw on his own shirt and trousers, I start running towards the exit as fast as I can without blowing my cover. _Fresh, tepid, aromatic smog_, I dash into the apartment entryway and turn off the stealth device.

"Sweet, delicious pollution."

"Hello there, Stranger," says a duracrete-cased voice beside me, all grit and gravel, but I still don't see a thing. "Having a good day?"

"I'm not going to like this encounter, am I?" I ask the empty air, trying to find some place to hide with my peripheral vision, but whoever it is has got me pinned against the door. I can still _feel_ their presence even if I can't _see_ them. And that's when I hear it. The sound of the two worst onomonopias in the world colliding together with a violent beam of light.

_Snap. Hiss. Damn.  
_

* * *

"_Let me borrow your Upari crystal for my saber, Revan."_

"_No."_

"_Why not? You've already got three! What do you need the other two for?"_

"_It doesn't hurt to plan ahead. I could have use for it someday."_

"_Someday?"_

"_You just can't have it. This one's not destined to belong to you."_

"_It's just a bloody crystal, Rev. What's the big deal?"_

"_Oh, it's bloody, all right. Just you see. You should be careful what you wish for."_

"_Huh?"_

"_Nothing. Why don't you go ask Crattis if he'll sell you one? He's always got several spares."_

"_Um, hello, Jedi Padawan here? Where in the world do you think I'd get the money from? Besides, Crattis only has plain stock. There's no way he'd have something as rare as an Upari."_

"_Well, as it turns out, I happen to have a plan that just might involve you getting your own Upari."_

"_Oh, great. Not another one of your Brubb-headed plans, Therevan. C'mon. Last time we followed through with one of these, Master Vash didn't talk to us for a whole three weeks and Master Vrook wouldn't let us out of the Enclave for a month! I'm really serious about it this time, Revan, I really need that crystal to complete my—"_

"_Quiet! I sense another wacky Jedi padawan adventure coming on… are you thinking what I'm thinking, Malakor?"_

"_No. No. NO! We are NOT going to try to take over the—"_

**End.**


	5. Star Killer, Starkiller, Part 1

[A/N: BOOM! Baby. Okay, I'm back... this one is very brief, but it's been sitting on my computer for months... much like the rest of my stories. Not sure when I'll have the gumption to continue with the rest of this. I have things plotted here and here, mostly for the end of Taris, but it seems like it'd be such a pain to write through the Rakaghouls and then the swoop meet... bleh. The next section should get you through the arena, with a slight twist on the history of the Mysterious Stranger. And thanks to all the people who wrote in with words of encouragement while I was gone! I do want to write this. I just have a hard time working out the story. Waaaiii...]

**STAR KILLER, STARKILLER****, Part 1**

_Things take a turn for the strange. The dynamic duo have broken up and an inexplicable species of followers called "fans" tags Raven; making a covert mission above ground more dangerously so in the sparkling confines of Upper_ _City._

**TARIS: UPPER** **CITY SOUTH: 1030 (Day 4)**

The current situation is not quite what I expected. I look down at the blubbery bandit who has materialized at my waist, holding what is clearly a fake model light-up saber.

"Aren't you a bit short to be a Jedi?" I ask, trying not to offend.

"Really? You don't think the cloak helps?"

"Well, I didn't think Hutts could use the Force."

"The spirit of a Jedi is not defined by accident of birth nor species!" The little brown blob jiggles in righteousness and actually tries to puff a nonexistent chest. Right.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes! We are your welcoming committee, Mysterious Stranger!"

"We?"

"Yes! We are your biggest fans! I am Hutt Two Three Kenobi and this is my fellow Knight of Taris, Puke Sogplodder!"

I nod politely to the brown-robed Kowakian monkey-lizard on the Hutt's shoulder. He seems significantly far less space-crazed than his blubbery friend. The self-satisfied, happy look on the adolescent Hutt's face reminds me of very wrinkly Corellian bread dough.

"And now I must ask for you to come with us at gunpoint, please!"

"What? Sorry, but I'm a little confused. What happened to the lightsaber?"

The young Hutt is undeterred. He pulls a sleek little custom blaster number from some secret fold inside his cape. "This way, please," he reiterates, and I shrug, raising my arms and placing them behind my head in the traditional prisoner surrender position. Where else could I possibly ever want to be other than at the far end of a spoiled Hutt kid's blaster?

We take the back walkways to an inter-Tarisian elevator, and the doorman greets the young Hutt with familiarity.

"Seriously, though," I whisper out of the corner of my mouth, "are you even allowed here in Upper City?"

"Our Da kinda has some pull with the locals," The Huttlet blushes and puts his free hand to his face, and something about the gesture triggers something. This weren't no junior tub ballin' to emulate his gangster papa. I blink. Had I really missed those lines of pastel purple over the eyes? This wasn't a Huttlet, it was a Huttette!

"Does he, now? Heh. I guess I'm not surprised. You Hutts probably have the balls of the whole Tarisian aristocracy in your wallet, right?"

Amazingly, her already dark complexion drops several shades lower. "Yeah, Da's got something in his grips, alright." She broods for a minute and then lowers the gun. "But it's not the Jedi way," she finishes sulkily.

"Da… is that your name for your teru?" I ask. I like to think that I'm up to speed on multiple galactic ethnicities, and Hutts are good people to know about. Helps to know your way when dealing with gangsters and thieves ready to rip you a new opening at a moment's notice. Never know when reminding some Gungan guards of their dearly cherished sacred water days might buy you a day's pardon to crack the security code on your cell door, for instance.

"I dunno, what's a teru?"

"Chuba rima di hatta?" [Do you speak Huttese?]

"Huh?"

The Kowakian, who has been silent up till now jutts in. "Ne. Ki chuba da naga? Bana ne rima di hatta. Mindi ya bana Jeday" [No. Kids these days. Don't know their own ass from their homeland. Thinks she's a Jedi.]

"Bana tila a je kalia duga." [Boy, that must be frustrating.]

"Ji uyari men yo nara." [You have no idea.]

"What are you two talking about!" The Huttette, who is still holding her tiny—and I'm noticing—_pink_ blaster in her other pudgy hand, waves it about.

"Just saying that you don't sound too happy with your dad's operations."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, you know, typical Huttese gangster."

The elevator doors swish open, and I'm non-too gently prodded in by the edge of the Huttette's fake saber.

"So, uh, where are we going again?"

"Da's got a job for you. Says you used to do real well fighting for him."

My forehead twitches and I try not to shit my pants. "_You want me to fi-wha-ba-fiba-do-what_?" Mentally, I'm already slapping my own forehead before the words are even out.

She shrugs, but her eyes are filled with a not-exactly-sane-obsessive kind of light when she looks up at me. The purple marks on her eyes, I note, are really kinda disgusting. "I was really serious about the welcome, though. We really are your biggest fans!"

The elevator slows, and comes gently to a stop.

"I don't suppose I get at least one comm call," I ask, as a sliver of light opens between the doors.

"No, sorry. I think Da would disapprove."

Great, I think, just great.

_Ssssssssshhhhhhhhh. _

* * *

"_Mal, I want to name it Moxy Fi."_

"_You can't name it Moxy Fi."_

"_Why not?"_

"_You just don't name ships Moxy Fi, Revan!"_

"_I think it's catchy."_

"_You also think hiding our identities as cross-dressing smugglers is a good way to get into Mando space."_

"_It's working so far, isn't it? I think that Keldorn Ordo was quite taken with you, too."_

"_That's not the point!"_

"_Well, what is?"_

"_It's called the Ebon Hawk."_

"_But _I'll _call it Moxy Fi._"

"_It's a stupid idea, Revan."_

"_Mal, when are you gonna learn that there are no dumb ideas, only poor executions?"_

"_Oh, that's funny, because I thought dueling in the Tarisian arena was a pretty frackin' _dumb_ idea."_

"_Yeah, but we won enough to buy Moxy when I took that fall, didn't we?"_

"_Do I even need to remind you of why we are running away from Tarisian gangsters right now?"_

"_Are you trying to start another game of questions?"_

"_You're just trying to get a rise out of me aren't you?"_

"_Is it working?"_

**End.**


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